Fear and Loathing
by Esmee
Summary: This is a trilogy of stories that I hope are fairly self-explaintory. They deal with death, anger, pain and forgiveness. They deal with letting go, holding on, and moving on. They deal with life.
1. Fear and Loathing

The Fear and Loathing Trilogy

By, the Esmee

          Hello all my lovely readers out there in fanfiction land! Welcome to my stand-alone trilogy, 'Fear and Loathing'. Charming name that.

          Anyhow, I shall now explain about this trilogy I have here.

          A good while back I wrote three poem/song fic attempts on the spur of a inspired creativity, induced sugar hallucination, and sent them to an archive I frequented often. Surprisingly they were accepted. Huh. Go figure. 

          Anyway, a few months back I decided to tear through my old floppies to find some empty disk on which I could put some of my work to take with me while I was away. While going through them and deleting all my old, pathetic attempts of a semblance of a story, I happened across those three. 

          Upon rereading them I almost threw up because they were so ugly and pathetic. I still shuddered thinking of them. But, I still liked the premise on which I had based them. So I decided to under take rewriting them, having convinced myself with much effort that I didn't totally suck as a writer (and I was bored).

          The first one was 'After.' Hopefully some of you have already read it. Upon satisfactory completion of the fic, I thought to myself, hey, that wasn't too bad. And started on the second, 'I remember.' This too, hopefully, some of you will recognize. When I finished that one, I almost threw in the towel. I just had too many things on the go and I knew that the third fic would be the toughest to write of the three. 

          I didn't, throw in the towel that is, and, surprisingly; it didn't take to long to write the blasted thing once I got down to it.

          Some of you may be wondering why the hell I put them in the chaptering format. The reason being that this way you can read all of them in order easily. Hopefully, this isn't too inconvenient for you.

          I am placing the standard disclaimer here, on the cover page, and am also placing all my previous author's note here as well.

          Enjoy!

          ~E~

Ye Olde Disclaimer: 

          I do not own any of the characters (I wish!). All characters are copyright Akiyoshi Hongo, Toei Animation. TM, and Bandai. So no suing!!!! I have no money. None. Zip. Zero. Nada. If you do sue me you will get a grand total of *searching pockets* a whole lot o' lint and a piece of paper with scribbles on it.


	2. After

After

By, Esmee

–  –  –

After all has been said or done

After the race has been run

After the names have been called

And the tears have been cried

After hope has died

I'll be waiting

          "That's it?"

           "Yes."

          "You left?"

          "Yes."

          "Just like that?"

          "_Yes_."

          "What were you _thinking_?" Jyou groaned and looked at me, seemingly amazed at what he considers my extreme stupidity. He's right in a way; I should've slammed the door harder when I left.

          "I don't know."

          "Go back and apologize Yamato. You shouldn't let it end like this." 

          "No." I said unreasonably. "It was her fault and she can come and apologize to me." 

          I was sprawled in one of the large, over-stuffed armchairs in the Kido residence living room. It was rather late, okay very late, but I had needed to talk to someone desperately, and Jyou, being my very best buddy, was elected the lucky confessional unto whom I would pour out my woes. It was only by some grace of God that Jyou's parents had chosen tonight to spend some quality time together; I don't think they would have been too happy with an angst ridden teenage boy coming to their house at some ungodly hour, and demanding to speak with their youngest son. As it was, Jyou wasn't too pleased either; he'd mumbled something about "Studying." "Test." "Morning." and "Sleep." when he let me in. In fact now that I think about it, I bet he just let me in to keep me form waking up the neighbors. And he's supposed to be my friend. Bah!

          After pouring out my tale of woe upon what I had assumed would be a pair of sympathetic ears, he proceeded to tell me, in no soft terms, what a complete and utter fool I was and that I should go back on bended knee and apologize to that woman. "Over my dead body," I muttered under my breath at the thought.

          I had thought I hadn't said that loud enough for him to hear, but he gave a long suffering sigh and said, "she's proud too Yamato. I think if you don't try to talk it out now . . . it might be over."

          "Good." I said, feeling a perverse pleasure at the thought, when I would have normally been racing out the door in near hysterics to prevent that from happening. Man, I was really pissed. "Fine."

          A moment of silence fell over the two of us, each thinking separate thoughts, but probable along the same lines and about the same person. Mine were . . . less than pleasant, while Jyou's were probable along the line of how to get me to get out of his house and back to her to apologize. Not bloody likely. "It was all _her_ fault," I muttered, suddenly feeling a need to justify myself. Oh bloody hell; I was actually starting to feel guilty!

          "Well, what were you and Mimi fighting about anyway?" Jyou asked reasonably, after a pause in which I was suppose to elaborate and didn't.

          What were we fighting about? Something important, obviously. "You know Jyou, it's strange, but I don't really remember now." 

          Jyou just shook his head despairingly.  

After blood has been shed

And the world painted red

After you tire of this earth

I'll be waiting

          "You really should call her, Oniisan."

          "I don't want too."

          "Liar."

          I decided to refrain from answering that comment because I did want to call her. Slightly. Microscopically.

          "You haven't talked to her in two weeks! Enough is enough." My no-longer-so-little brother exploded, finally reaching the end of he seemingly never ending tolerance with my obviously deliberate lack of cooperation.

         Actually, it had been fifteen days, nine hours, forty-two minutes, and nineteen seconds since I last had any form of contact with her. I am not counting, I'm just board okay? "Look Takeru, if she wants to talk then she can call me. I happen to know that she does have my phone number." I said tiredly, plopping myself down in front of the television with a cold can of coke and the remote. I cracked open the coke and took a long chug. Ah, the miracle that is caffeine. Sometimes it was the only thing that kept me alive and sane.

          Takeru looked bewildered. "Why are you being so damned stubborn? I know you miss her, I know she misses you - thought why she would miss a jerk like you is beyond me - so why don't you just take the first step and call her?"

          "Because it was her fault!" I snapped. Somewhere deep down I knew he was right, but I have my pride, and I wouldn't go crawling back on my stomach to anyone. And I was right dammit! I don't remember what we where fighting about, but I know I was right. "And why are you so bloody insistent that I call her now? You weren't after me this badly before." I added as I turned on the TV.

          "Well-" Takeru started, but fell quiet as the news came on. I looked at him surprised, then at the television to see what had caught his attention so easily. 

          The newscaster with her condescending I-feel-your-pain smile plastered on her perfectly painted face surrounded by hair so full of hair spray that not even a hurricane could cause it to fall out of place, proceeded to tell the world at large about the tour of Asia the young up-and-coming singer/composer Mimi Tachikawa was taking. Starting today nonetheless. Oh and what's this? It also seemed that she was leaving in an hour. The newscaster also added cheerfully that the tour would be a yearlong.

          "That's why," Takeru said softly, meekly even. 

          "How long have you known about this?" It was curious how detached I sounded, even to me.

          "About a week. Maybe less."

          What was this strange wrenching I was feeling in my chest? "Did everyone else know?"

          "Yes."

          I stared at the television blankly for a moment. What was this queer hollowness in the pit of my stomach? And this tight pain in my throat? "Like I said before: if she wants to talk, she can call." I said clearly, though I did have to force the words around the strange lump of pain that had suddenly lodged itself in my throat.

          "Oniisan . . ."

          I looked up at him, my eyes locking with his, then my gaze slid over to the phone just behind him. My eyes hardened. I turned back to the television and changed the channel. "She has my number."

          "But-"

          "I think you need to be somewhere else Takeru. I think you need to be somewhere else right now."

          I waited until the door closed, and then I turned off the T.V. There was nothing on it I wanted to watch anymore. As I sat there, staring at the blank screen, making a phone call seemed awfully tempting. 

          I got up, somehow made it past that god-awful, tempting phone without diving for it and speed dialing her number, and went to take a long shower.

          I stood in the shower stall for a long time, just letting warm wetness slide down my cheeks and soak my face. 

          Then I turned on the water. 

After you learn to live

After you learn to cry

And you learn to live a lie

After you learn to die

I'll be waiting

          . . . ddrrring . . .

          "I'LL GET IT!" I holler to the household at large, as I scramble through the obstacle course that is the Ishida residence living room.

          . . . ddrrring . . . 

          "Don't hang up, don't hang up!" I muttered franticly, diving for the receiver.

          . . . ddrr- 

          I grab the receiver in the middle of its last ring, and banged my shin on the coffee table in the process. "Shi-" I hissed sharply.

          "Nice to hear from you too." A familiar voice said sarcastically in my ear. Opps must've said that into the receiver.  

          "Sorry."

          " 'S okay man."

          "So . . . why're you calling?"

          "Me an' some of the gang are renting some movies tonight and we thought you might want to came and see 'em with us."

          Now that the adrenaline kick has worn off, disappointment was setting in. For just a single minute, I had thought . . . I had hoped . . . that . . . maybe . . . "Sounds great-" I started to say truthfully.

          "Cool, come at six and-"

          "-But I'm doing something else tonight." I said, interrupting Taichi before he could finish and rope me into going.

          Taichi gave a disgusted groan. "Look man, you've been 'Doing something else.' for the past month, and, frankly, I'm sick and tired of it. Get your act together! Just call her and get it over with."

          I stiffened and snarled into the phone, "this has nothing to do with that. I just have other things I have to do, not that it's any of your business. I do have a life you know."

          "Could 've fooled me."

          "Like I said before: it's none of your business. And even if it were, it was her fault and when she calls me, then we'll talk."

          "_Come_ on Ishida, you don't even remember what you were fighting about, what's is it sooo important that you've gotta be right about it? If I where in your place, I'd be worshiping at her feet. A girl like her only comes along once in a very long while."

          "I've gotta go," I said abruptly and quickly hung up on him. That last bit had just struck a wee bit to close to home. But damnit, I wasn't going to be the one to make the call. 

         Later that evening I almost wished I had taken Yagami up on his offer. Urg, why do I feel so dirty for admitting that?

          I went for a walk, and came back almost immeaditly. There was nowhere to go. I tried to watch some T.V. but there never seemed to be anything good on and I couldn't sit still long enough to watch anything anyway. I felt restless; at lose ends. There was nothing for me to do but sit and think, and doing that particular pastime was not very desirable to me at the moment.

          I paced the living room, then the kitchen, and then finally my bedroom. I was bored. Bored with a capital 'B'. I have no real hobbies besides music, and I, being the genius that I am, had left my guitar at band session, there was nothing I could . . .

          On a sudden torrent of inspiration, I dove into my closet, digging through the piles of odds and ends that had accumulated over the years. Then, with a very triumphant "AHA!" I withdrew from my closets dark recesses clutching in my hand the Holy Grail of my youth, my most prized possession at the tender age of twelve. My silver and cherry wood Harmonica that my Grandmother had given me.

          I gently ran my fingers over its smooth surfaces. Long ago (or so it seemed to me), I had exchanged harmonica for guitar and in doing so, given away something else, but I had not know what it was at the time, even now I'm still not sure what it was. 

          "Let's see if I can still play you, hmm?" I murmured lovingly to its shiny casings as I raised it to my lips. The first sound that came out of it was horrendous, and I grinned sheepishly at the tiny instrument. 

          "Sorry I haven't been practicing like I should," I told it and tried again. After that, everything came back to me. Just like riding a bicycle; once you learn it you never forget. I made a silent promise to myself to not forget about my harmonica again.

         I lay on my bed, wedged up against the headboard, as I played. I idle ran through the notes, fiddling with different harmonics until I found one I liked. I held the note and added a descending crescendo to it, then I droped the first note and- 

          Abruptly I jerked up right, breaking the melody off midway through. I had thought the melody had been familiar when I started playing it and no wonder! It was one that she had written one rainy afternoon with me while we were waiting for our food in a wonderful little place overlooking the river. She had shown it to me, and between us we had hashed out the harmonics to our satisfaction.

          I flopped back down on the bed and gave a muffled moan into my pillow. Everywhere I turned there was something to remind me of her; a picture, a place, and it really didn't help that her songs where quickly becoming the most popular on the radio. I couldn't get away from her and I wasn't all that sure I wanted to. No matter what I said, I missed her with an aching intensity was almost physical. 

          Maybe, maybe I should just call her . . . No, some part of me insisted, She should be the one to make the call. She was wrong, and all she has to do is say so and then everything will go back to the way it was . . . 

         "Yes," I muttered into my pillow. "Yes she should be the one to call, but I miss her . . ."

          I must have fallen asleep then, because when I opened my eyes again it was the pale gray light of false dawn. I wasn't sure what had made me wake up, but when I touched my pillow, it was warm and damp.

After you've lived

After you've died

After you've learned the truth of a lie

And the lie of a truth

I'll be waiting

          "So . . . You're working late tonight?"

          "Yeah . . . Listen, I think I'm going to pull an all nighter on this one, so don't bother keeping supper warm or waiting up for me. 'K Boy?"

          "Right Otousan," I said cradling the phone on my shoulder as I got out the ingredients for supper.

          "Sayonara."

          I just grunted what I hoped would be an adequate goodbye and hung the phone up.

          I turned on the stove and started frying some rice, and then I started chopping up vegetables for a stir-fry. Cooking had always been a soothing activity for me, almost therapeutic really, and lately I've been cooking a lot. Cooking a lot and eating very little of what I cook. For those who know me this is not a good sign. 

          . . . ddrrring . . . 

          I glared hotly at the phone, I really didn't like being disturbed when I cook and I had just put the vegetables on when the phone started to ring. With an annoyed grumble I answered it. "Moshi moshi?"

          "Turn on the radio, Yamato."

          "What's this all about Koushiro?"

          "Just do it please." 

          Normally I would have just made him tell me what was going on, but the note of excitement in his voice puzzled me, so I did as he asked. 

          "Tune it to 109.5 FM, please."

          Baffled, I tuned the station in. "I've tuned it, now will you plea-"

          "Shhh! Just listen,"

          "-And that was just Celes Chere singing her latest hit 'Hero', which is this weeks number two hit and last weeks number one. Now for the big one people! I know some of you are saying that there is no song that could beat Ms. Chere's song for the number one, but boy oh boy are you wrong! The new number one hit is . . . Mimi Tachikawa's latest single 'After'! This young lady has the most incredible voice I have heard in a very lo~o~ng time, the emotions she can provoke with just a single note are amazing! She had even me, a jaded cynical DJ, crying after I heard this song. She really deserves the number one spot and I have a feeling this girl is going to go far. I-"

          "Isn't it great! She got the number one spot! All of us are listening, Sora, Taichi, Takeru, Hikari, Daisuke, Miyako, Iori, Jyou; we've all been hoping that she would get it. I've been following the charts ever since she left and-"

          I let Koushiro chatter on excitedly, while I quickly turned off the radio with a numb feeling spreading through my veins.

          "Yamato? Yamato? Are you still there?"

           "Yeah, I'm still here." I didn't like the slightly strangled sound my voice had.

          "Well, aren't you happy for her? She got the number one spot!"

          " 'Course I'm happy for her," I said sharply, just a little too sharply. 

          "You don't sound too happy."

          "So what?" I challenged him. "Is there a law somewhere that says I have to be happy?"

          "You're my friend, Yamato. I'm just worried about you."

          That made me feel a little guilty. "Sorry."

          "You know, I . . . have her cell-phone number."

          My heart gave an odd little wrench. "And this has what to do with me?" 

          "Nothing . . . I just thought you might want to know."

          "Well," I said licking suddenly dry lips. "I've got dinner on the stove and I don't want it to burn."

          "Oh. Well, okay . . . "

          "Sayonara." 

          "Sayonara Yamato."

          I hung up and returned to the kitchen. The smell of frying oil, Teriyaki sauce, and ginger saturating the air, was enough to make a persons mouth water. It just made me feel nauseous. 

          "Well," I said aloud so I wouldn't feel so bloody alone. "Looks like she's really made her way up in the world. That is, of course, why she hasn't called to apologize; she doesn't need too now. She doesn't need me now." I went over and gave the vegetables a stir, knowing that Otousan would be having a lot of first class leftovers tonight. 

          "Yup, she doesn't need you any more Yamato my boy." I felt quite stupid talking to myself, but didn't want to turn on the radio. Glancing over at the clock I realized that I still had time to catch the evening news. Though I had been avoiding the new of late, anything would be better than talking to myself; so into the living room I went, and turned the television on, cranking the volume up high so I could hear it in the kitchen while I cooked. I also turned it up loud so I wouldn't have to hear my own thoughts.

          I was just about to go back into the kitchen when the newscaster was handed a sheaf of crisp white paper. She looked at it and tuned slightly pale under her make-up. She looked up, her eyes sad. "I've just been handed a news flash, and it would seem that we have just had a huge loss to our music community, and our society as well."

          I felt a small lump of fear in my stomach form and harden as she continued. 

          "It would seem that the brilliant young singer/composer Mimi Tachikawa has just died in a fatal car crash. The details have not been released yet, but-"        

          There was suddenly a great rushing in my ears, blocking out all other sounds. I felt numb, and I could feel my lungs struggle to breathe. It was as if I was watching another person standing here. There was no pain, just a slightly hazy feeling and the buzz of white noise in my ears.

          Then I heard great, wracking dry sobs, and realized distantly that it was me making those painful sounding cries, but inside I'm not crying, I'm screaming. I felt my knees start to buckle; I let them fold and knelt on the floor. I put my hands over my face and bent forward until my hands pressed into my knees. It can't be true; it has to be a lie. I moaned softly to myself; it was a primal sound, a dying sound. The sound is frightening, but no less than the fact that my world had just shattering around me, leaving me cut to ribbons by the flying shards. It must be a lie. 

          I didn't know how long I knelt there, didn't care how long I had knelt there, when Takeru burst through the door, a strange wild, terrified look in his eyes and ran over to me, throwing his arms around me. I could feel his body tremble with repressed sobs.

          "I came." He said, holding me in an almost crushing grip.

          "Yes. You came." I wondered briefly how I could keep my voice so steady, even though it sounded rusty, like I hadn't spoken in years. 

          "I came. I heard it on the radio. I heard it on the radio and I came."

          "I know."

          "The others are coming too. They'll be here soon."

          "Yes. I know."

          He pulled back from me, and said with the wild, terrified look intensifying. "Why the hell are you so calm?! She's dead! Dead, dead, dead . . . Why the hell aren't you crying?! Why . . . " He looked into my eyes, and his widened, terrified at whatever he saw in them. Finally his face crumpled and he started to sob softly. I wrapped my arms around him and let him cry into my shoulder. 

          I envied him; I had no more tears to cry.

After you have lived

And done

And run

And cried

And bleed

And died

I'll be waiting for you

_"Okay, that was 'After' by Mimi Tachikawa. And to all those who said nothing could top Celes Chere's 'Hero', HAH! I think we will be hearing many more number one songs from this young lady- *Pause* Wait just a minute, I have just been handed a press release, and it seems the Mimi Tachikawa has just died in a fatal car crash . . . "_

–  –  –


	3. I remember

I remember****

By, Esmee****

–  –  –

Petals fall

Hitting the ground

Silent sounds

Do you remember?

         I could see my reflection dimly in the window of the car Yamato and I were traveling in as we sped down the highway when the first wistful strains of one of Mimi's songs drifted to us over the radio. I felt my heart ache dully as her voice pried through the thin emotional barrier that I had managed to erect several months ago with its beautiful fingers.

          I glanced over at Yamato swiftly and saw his face spasm in pain, so I reached over to the radio, fully intending to turn it off but Yamato smiled weakly at me.

          "Leave it on Jyou, I'm okay."

          I think my uncharacteristic snort proved that I did not believe a word he said, and his smile strengthened a little more. 

          "No, really, I'm okay. Besides, I like this song." He gave me a lop-sided grin under tired eyes. At the next rest stop I was going to take over driving for a while, I decided firmly. The boy was about to drop.

          "Okay then, I'll leave it on." It was a marked improvement that he could stay in the same area that on of her songs were playing in, even just a few months ago he wouldn't let any of her music play within hearing range of him.    

          So now I sit in the car with my best friend going to see the death site of my _other_ best friend and someone I loved dearly, someone _he_ loved dearly, but there are times when I think he didn't love her enough. And strangely, there are times when I'm blinded by rage, most of which is directed at Yamato. 

          At those times I want to scream, to wail, to moan and weep. And hurt him. Badly. Whether it's fair or not there is a small part of me that blames Mimi's death on him, some small part that yells and whispers by turn of how if he hadn't been so proud that she would still be alive.

          But the rational, sane part of me knows that it wasn't Yamato's fault a drunk driver passed out at the wheel. It wasn't his fault that that car was the one in front of Mimi's. It wasn't his fault the nose of the drunk driver's car T-boned Mimi's. _It wasn't his fault_.

          But that infinitesimally small irrational part of me ruled by blind rage and pain says that if Yamato had apologized, if they hadn't fought, if he had been so damn bloody fucking _stubborn_, she wouldn't have gone and she wouldn't have died. _It was his fault_.

          And the worst part was that Yamato _did_ blame himself for her death. Which only served to make that irrational part of me feel justified in believing it was his fault.

          I lean my head back on the headrest and close my eyes. I had no fear that I would start to cry, I had run out of tears long ago, but my eyes would still sting painfully every now and then. It's funny, but it seems so very long ago that she died, and I still expect to hear her voice over the phone, still expect to see her drop by, "Just to talk," as she put it. So very long ago, I feel so old. 

          A strange silence has come between Yamato and I this past year, one that hadn't been there before her death. An awkward, uncomfortable, lingering silence, heated with unspoken accusations, and blames that neither of us understand. Silences speak; we only have to learn how to listen to them. 

          The silence in the car has a different quality to it though. Anticipation, fear, longing, regret, are what this silence is woven from. And there is rage threaded through it, and pain. But whom it comes from is undeterminable.

          I can remember the precise moment I heard that she had died. I had just finished preparing from a major exam when Koushiro called and told me to turn on my radio. As I did so he explained that Mimi was going to be on the top ten-chart with one of her songs. After his hurried apology that he had to contact the others, he hung up, and I let myself relax into one of the huge overstuffed chairs in my parent's living room. 

          I had heard her voice before, was one of the first to hear it actually, but _nothing_ she had done before could compared to this. It was incredible; the wistful sadness in it stirred strange feelings in me. Sadness was foremost, sadness for the obvious pain you could tell she was going through, her voice had always told what she was feeling; next came anger strangely enough. Anger directed at Yamato, because I knew it was Yamato causing her this hurt and it made me want to use him as a punching bag until he realized want a complete and utter moron he was being; and lastly, a queer longing. A part of me wished that I could take away that needless hurt I heard in her voice and another part of me wished shamefully that _I_ could cause such an intensely emotional response in someone, in her.

          The song came to an end as all good things seem to, and I found myself wishing that it would never stop playing. The DJ came on and I started to tune him out, he wasn't Mimi so I wasn't interested. I can remember him taking a startled pause in his inane chattering and then saying in a voice rich with disbelief that Mimi was dead. That she had died in a car accident. I felt something in my chest catch, stumble, and shatter. I seemed to be in a chaotic vortex of internal pain, and then it hit me; if this was what I was feeling, then what the hell must Yamato feel like?

          When I arrived at Yamato's house, he looked at me with dull eyes that I saw myself in, but he didn't cry. 

          Neither did I.

Crying faces

Quiet places

Tears falling down

Do you remember?

          Yamato didn't come to the funeral.

          I don't think he would have been able to last through it if he had gone, as it was I almost could stand through the entire thing. I can barely remember it; my mind seemed to have shut off any form of logical thinking. The only thing that I can remember clearly is when her little brother – little HAH, the kid is an inch shy of six feet, and he's her _little_ brother – came up to me, looked me square in the eye and said, "I see the murderer didn't have the guts to come and see his handy work." Just like that. 

          From the psychology course I'm taking I recognized this as simply being his way of coping with the death of his sister; he had practically worshiped the ground she walked on, though he would be the last to admit it and the first to come to her defense. To him there had to be some reason that this happened, someone had to have done _something_ for this punishment, there had to be someone to blame, it couldn't just be some random tragedy. So his mind picked the easiest person to blame and blamed him. The person who had caused her to leave town simply to avoid seeing him at a street corner. The person whom she had cried over in her room at night when she thought no one could hear her. Yamato. And so her brother copes his way, bitterly and harshly and not entirely falsely.  

            I know it sounds cruel, but that is the way he copes, and sadly others – myself included – cope that way as well. And that few seconds of looking into her brother's eyes is the only thing I can remember from that blasted funeral. A look of pain, of rage, of being lost, being mirrored back to me in her eyes that are set in her brother's face, and I see that same look when I glance in a mirror or in Yamato's eyes. 

            The car makes tiny vibration under my hands, comforting and small. They vibrate in tune with the beat of the song, and we keep driving, looking for something to validate what has happened.  

Gentle hands

Reprimand

Trying to pick up the pieces

Do you remember?

          Ironically, the first few months after her death were the easiest for me. There was no need to think, just react. I was the person to whom everyone felt it was safe to pour out their pains and rants, a quality my psychology teacher said every good psychiatrist needed. So I listened, listened and absorbed the others thoughts and emotions so I wouldn't have enough room left over for my own. 

          It was when they stopped calling, when they stopped needing an outlet to pour their pain and rage into that the dreams started. Dreams about every look, every gesture, every laugh, every smile, every little thing that we had ever done together, clouding my sleeping mind. But they weren't dreams; they were memories, golden, bright memories. And they weren't just limited to my sleep – what precious little I got anyway – they invaded my days as well. Waking dreams, seeing her in everyday things. Inanimate objects sudden became of great significance to me for strange reasons. It was then that the role of the comforter, of the reliable one, of the steady, stalwart one, became a burden.

          To be completely honest, I sometimes resented the strong hold she had on my memory. Sometimes wish that I could let her go and not look back. But that is impossible, she is too dominant in my memories, had too much too do with my life. One of my best, and at times I believe truest, friends, and to let go of that frightens me deeply.

          The turn-off was coming up quickly; hopefully there would be some sort of rest stop up ahead and I would be able to take over from Yamato. He too feels bereft by her death, just as deeply as I do. But I think part of that stems from the fact that he feels guilty. 

          What if, what if, what if, I could scream that until my face became blue and I passed out, and it wouldn't make any difference to the way I feel or the way he feels or the fact that for all that she's still dead. 

          Nothing can change that fact. 

          Oh God, nothing can.

Joyful cries

Simple lies

Trying to reweave broken lives

Do you remember?

          He pretends. He thinks that no one knows that he pretends to go through the motions of living, but I know and I think the only reason I know is because I pretend too. A year later and I still need to pretend to live. Rather pathetic, ne? But to have someone so deeply entwined in your life suddenly and violently ripped from the fabric of your life is bound to be unsettling. 

          A light pattering of rain hit the windshield; the pale rivulets running down the steamy glass make tiny rivers. The water streaming down ward reminded me of tears. "And the heavens weep . . ." I whispered softly to myself. It truly seemed fitting to me that the heavens would weeping on the anniversary of the death of one of the purest beings to walk the earth.

          "What did you say Jyou?"

          "Nothing. Nothing important anyway."

          "Oh." 

          The was a long pause, then, "They said that we shouldn't go, you know."

          "I know."

          "Why didn't they want us to go Jyou? Shouldn't they want to come too?"

          "No. I don't know. Maybe. Yes."

          "Then why didn't they . . .?"

          "They've moved on."

          "How can they?" The wondering amazement in his voice is plainly evident.

          "I don't really know. We knew her better, I guess."

          "Oh." 

Friendly eyes

And long goodbyes

Wished unending

Do you remember?

          "I would have thought that Kohaku at least would have wanted to come with us," Yamato said softly.

          "He can't handle it yet." I said with a shrug. Kohaku probable wouldn't be ready to see anything to do with his sister until he came to terms with her death.

          "Oh."

          The rain was coming down faster and harder, making it harder to see. It brought to mind a particularly vivid memory of the time I had gone to meet Mimi at the café we had often frequented and just as I got there, it had started pouring. I quickly ran for the owning where I saw Mimi standing, and once I did, asked why she wasn't inside out of the rain. She smiled and pointed to a sign on the door that said 'Closed for Renovation'. We both laughed, and said that since we were already wet, why not just go for a walk? It was one of my favorite memories of her, her laughing with rain gilding her hair to her head like a silvery brown helmet. 

          And her eyes . . . I've never been able to understand just what it was about her eyes that made them so clear, so pure. She wasn't a perfect person, I'll be the first to admit that, but . . . Something about her drew people to her. When she was happy, everyone else was exuberant. When she was sad, everyone else was miserable. When she was frightened, everyone else was despairing. Maybe that's not completely true, but that's what it seemed like to me at least.

          "Jyou?"

          "Hm?" Yamato's voice jarred me from my brown study and back to reality. "Yes?"

          "Why do you think this happened?"

          "Why did what happen?"

          "Her death."

          I sucked in my breath. He was venturing into uncharted waters now; this was the first time he's asked anything about her death; he'd never let it come up between us before. And I wasn't all that sure he was going to like what was to be found. "I'm not sure why it happened," _Liar. The snake in my heart hissed. __You know why__ it happened, it happened because of him__. "It just did."_

          "Yeah. I know. It's just that, I can't help thinking what if I had apologized to her? What if I hadn't been so bloody proud . . . Would she still be alive? What if . . . "

          For some reason I suddenly exploded into blind, strangling rage, so strong it made me feel slightly ill. So now he suddenly starts to regret his bloody pride? "It's to fucking _late for that Yamato." I snarl, the words falling like sweet poison from my lips. "You fucking blew it. You let her __die and there is nothing in this world to undo it." I feel a sort of twisted, sadistic relief saying these words. Finally we have this out in the open._

          "So you're saying it's my fault, is that it?" Good, I was making him mad. Something we could use to clean the air between us.

          "Hell yes." 

          "How dare you . . . I would have died in her place gladly! I loved her, how can you say it was my fault when she was the other half of my soul! Ho-"

          "She left to get away from you!" 

          He jerked the wheel in shock slightly, and twisted round stare at me.

          "She left to get away from me . . . ?"

          "Yes."

          "Why?"

          "You were hurting her. She couldn't take it anymore, so she left." 

          "I didn't mean to . . . " 

         "You don't hurt 'the other half of your soul' without consequences." I said, cruelly rubbing his own words in his face.

          Before my eyes his face crumpled inward, eyes bright and dangerously glassy, and I felt like shit. 

          But I didn't try to comfort him or take back my words.    

Midnight walks

Later talks

Thought never to end

Do you remember?

          The dark countryside was skittering away underneath me eyes, and the silence between us wasn't easier than before, just more honest. 

          We both sat stiffly, staring straight ahead, not wanting or willing to look or speak to one another. Out in the dark ahead of us, I saw a light turn round the bend. _Broken taillights. I quickly dismissed them as. _

          "Jyou?"

          The tentative note in his voice hurt something in my chest. "Yeah?" I answered still staring straight ahead. Those bloody taillights were getting closer now.

          "I . . . "

          "You . . . " I prompted him still watching the taillights. They were really close now; didn't this guy know how to drive? The speed limit we just passed said ninety, couldn't the man read?

          "I'm . . ." 

          "Would you just spit it out!" I finally snapped. Those taillights were starting to freak me out; there was something I just couldn't put my finger on about them . . .

Summer swings

And butterfly wings

Whirling in chaotic colors

Do you remember?

          "I'm sorry."

          I felt myself go ridged. He didn't need to apologize to me, there wasn't anything he could fix with just those two little words. Then I gave a bitter bark of laughter. "Those are just words Yamato, they don't mean anything."

          "I just . . ." 

          "You just what?"

          "I just don't want you to hate me."

          I whipped around to stare at him in surprise. "I don't hate you."

          "You don't?" 

          "No, I'm mad as bloody hell at you, but I don't hate you." We stared at each other for a moment. "I just need to get this out of my system." I said quietly.

          "I know." He smiled at me slightly.

          A beam of bright light suddenly illuminated the sharp angles of his face. We both turned in surprise. For a moment, as I looked at the headlights of the car bearing down on us quickly, on our side of the road, the music seemed surreally loud.

Loving calls

The rain falls

Washing away all traces

Do you remember?

          Then we hit.

Warm arms

Loving eyes

Gentle hands

I remember

_*Hhhhhhhhhiiiiiiiiiiiiiiissssssssssssssss*_

–  –  –


	4. Alone

Alone****

By, Esmee

–  –  –

You're standing there all alone

Looking like

You're carved from stone

Standing there

Alone

_          "How did your brother seem to be coping?"_

_          "I honestly thought he was fine."_

_          "You had no idea that anything was wrong? He seemed completely fine?"_

_          "There had never been any indication that he was otherwise." _

_          "You're certain there wasn't?"_

_          "There wasn't. Was there? Yes. Maybe, I don't know; I'm not sure. No._

_          "I mean there was the normal depression that comes after life altering accidents, but the psychiatrists all said that was normal, you know? _

_          "But he never gave us any signs . . . Never acted strangely really._

_          "He pushed us all away. At the time that seemed acceptable. He wouldn't let people get close anymore. But, in retrospect, he was begging us to help him by doing that. Hindsight is always twenty-twenty."_

_          "Tell me about the accident."_

_          " . . . The accident?"_

_          "Yes. Tell me about the first few months afterwards."_

_          "The first few months after the accident were hard. My parents . . . They were very afraid that he might do something drastic to himself. It was at about the six-month mark that they seemed to think that everything was going to be fine."_

_          "That upsets you?"_

_          "How could they believe that? Why didn't they see . . .? _

_          "None of us saw. I am being hypercritical now. I hate hypocrites."_

_          "The accident . . .?"_

_          "Oh. Yes. The accident. I'm sorry."_

_          "It's alright. Please, continue."_

_          "It was never the same after the accident. It was as if some giant rift was slowly but surely opening between us all. My self, Yamato, our friends, we were drifting farther and farther apart. Leaving us divided and afraid. Alone. And there was nothing that any of us could do to stop it. That was something that shouldn't have happened. That was the time when we need to pull together and be strong. I suppose having two people blaming my brother for their loved-ones deaths did not help matters much._

_          " . . . I miss Shin." _

_         "Shin?" _

_          "My brother's best friend's brother. He just seemed to, I don't know, ignore us after the accident. I think he felt resentful that Yamato survived and Jyou didn't._

_          "He'd always been nice to the younger kids, never patronizing or arrogant. He taught me a lot. It hurts that he won't even look in my direction now. I guess I should be thankful that I had never been too close to Kohaku. It would be too hard to see him everyday, hating Yamato and I."_

_          "And Kohaku is . . .?"_

_          "His girlfriend's brother."_

_          "The one that died?"_

_          "Yes._

_          "You know, it's funny really. Kohaku hates Yamato almost as much as Yamato hated himself."_

          I watched silently as Doctor Iio pushed the stop button on the tape recorder. We had been taping my sessions since I had started seeing him a few weeks before. On occasion we use a session to go back over what I have said and see if I still am encumbered with that particular emotional stress.

          Doctor Iio is the first therapist with whom I have felt comfortable. He was a small man, shorter than I, but he held an air of strength about him that was comforting. His face was narrow and brown and wrinkled. Snowy white hair was kept meticulously clean and coiled at the nap of his neck. His eyes were bright despite their years and he had a warm voice. He wore thin, gold-wire framed glasses.

          He cocked his head at me, reminding me for all the world of a curious bird, and waved his hand at the recorder. "Well young man. This is something we have yet had to deal with."

          I nodded.

          "Do you still feel like this?"

          "Yes. For the most part."

          "Good." A chuckle rumbled in his chest. "Had you answered otherwise I would have been worried."

          I got up and wandered over to the large picture window with ugly chintz curtains that over looked the bay. It still made my eyes water when I looked at the bay. It always made me think of the time, during the battles with Myotismon, that Jyou and Ikkakumon had taken me to go find Yamato and Otousan. I quickly turned around and went to the bookcase on the opposite wall. I fiddled with the heavy, glass, egg-shaped paperweight that Iio kept there.

          "I do find it surprising, though, that you still blame yourself for your brother's death." I glanced over at him, faintly startled. "Yes, you heard very well what I said, boy. Now tell me _why_."

          "You should know _why_," I retorted. "You're the psychiatrist."

          He snorted. "Very well. You feel guilty because you were not there when it happened. You feel responsible because your brother was someone that protected of _you_ and you should have been able to return the favor. You feel resentful because he shouldn't have placed you in a position where you needed to protect _him_, your older brother." I made some vague sound of protest deep in my throat. Iio glared at me sternly. 

          "You be quiet when your elders speak." 

          I scowled. "Aren't therapists supposed to believe in self awareness and self fulfillment and all that other crap?"

          "Perhaps some, yes."

          "Then shouldn't you be being gentle and coddling with me?"

          He looked genuinely amused at this. "Me? Coddle _you_? My boy, what you need are facts. Facts and truths to put straight in your mind that it wasn't your fault, there was nothing you or anyone could have done. Continually hating you brother is just as unproductive as continually mourning him."

          I stared at him.

          "You look like a fish, boy." Iio said irritated. "Close your mouth if you have nothing to say."

          "You just said I hate my brother." I breathed, feeling numb. I had to put down the paperweight because my hands had begun trembling so badly.

          He sighed deeply. "Takaishi-san my lad, though you have not even acknowledged it to yourself yet, you hate your brother for what he has done. You hate him for the changes he's caused that can't be changed back. You hate him for the trusts he's broken that can't be repaired. You hate him because the choices he made excluded _you_. You hate him because he is your brother, and he is not supposed to do things like that. Not to you." He leaned forward, hands steepled under his chin. His eyes seemed tired.

          "You hate him because you love him." 

          I shook my head mutely, wanting to deny the statement but finding myself unable to speak a word. That was not true. I did not hate my brother. Do not. Cannot. Should not. I saw him start to get up and make movements like he was going to come towards me. I back peddled and shook my head even more vehemently. The small of my back cramped in pain where it bumped against the bookcase.

          "You're wrong." I croaked finally. "I don't hate my brother. I don't. You're _wrong_." He paused in his movements, sitting back down.

          "Am I?"

          "Yes." I was pleased that my voice was getting stronger. "I don't hate my brother. I don't hate that he choose to die. I don't hate that he never even _tried_ to talk to me, never tried to get help. I don't hate that he pushed us all away, that he pushed _me_ away, every time we offered support. I don't hate that because of him I have lost some of my best friends. I don't hate that because of him people are continually looking at me as if they are just waiting for my to follow in my brother's footsteps. I don't hate the fact that the bastard didn't even stop to consider what kind of impact this would have on his friends and family. I don't hate the asshole for not even considering what he would do to me. I don't hate him . . . "

          I saw my look of dawning realization mirrored in the lenses of Iio's glasses. He wisely stayed silent. 

          "I . . . " Words froze in my throat before they could form. "I . . . " I could feel something old and aching writhing inside me. Hurting. My eyes stung.

          "I . . . "

          "It's alright to hate, Takaishi-san." He murmured gently. "Hate is a natural emotion. And a hate so strong that it won't even let you weep can only be born of deep love."

          "I . . . " My eyes darted around the room, looking for some route of escape. I was feeling increasingly trapped. My hands fumbled for my coat. My fingers where stiff and wooden, like those of a marionette. "I –I think that today's session is over now."

          "You are angry that he didn't even consider what this would do to you." Iio wondered to the room, ignoring me. "Why?"

          I paused at the door for a moment; hand perched on the doorknob. I looked back. He was sitting in his large, overstuffed antique leather chair, his pride and joy, in a ray of blindingly bright winter sunlight. It haloed his head in a wreath of white and gold. He looked ancient at that moment. And wise. And tired and so mortal.

          "There was a time," My voice sounded hollow to my ears. Tinny. "When the thought of any type of hurt or worry to me would send Yamato into a near hysteric, protective rage. It seemed to be his only weakness: his only flaw. 

          "I just find it funny that he would be the one to hurt me the most. That's all."

          The door fell shut behind me with a soft click and a feeling of finality.

You're jaw is clenched

You're lips are tight

You're eyes shine with an awful light

Standing so

Alone

          The streets outside Iio's building where drab and dirty. They were also almost empty of life, with only a few brave individuals willing to trudge through the chilly winds to their destinations. The smart people where in their cars or at home. But I had never been very smart in that sense.

          But then, I never needed to before. Because Yamato would always be there to help catch me and pick up the pieces of whatever I had broken. But now . . . 

          I was forced to admit to myself that Iio was right, in a way. My dependency on my brother was almost crippling. A flutter of dusty brown caught the corner of my eye as I trudged past the large picture window of some antique store. I paused and glanced down. A tiny, soft dun-colored bird lay on the trash littered cement. The wind ruffled the small, downy feathers on its breast. It's head hung at an odd angle. There was a miniscule speckling of red on the beak.

          I tore my eyes away and pushed my walk into a brisk trot, then a run. Death seemed to be all around me now. Or maybe I was just now realizing it was there, having had the passive immunity most people hug tightly around themselves suddenly striped away. I wondered briefly if my face was as impassive as those of the people I saw walking by me on the street.

          Probably not. I have never had a good poker face.

          I paused at the street corner, shifting impatiently from foot to foot as I waited for the crossing light to change. It was very stupid, I felt, to be afraid of a dead bird. But I was. It made me uneasy, seeing the odd angle of its neck and the foggy dullness of its eyes. It looked too unnatural. Or maybe the real problem was that it looked all too natural. This strange unease and awareness I have about death is a topic I've yet to discuss with Iio.

          I was reluctant to go back to my apartment. Well, not _my_ apartment; I was staying with Otousan right now, but he was home so often that he might as well have been a repairman coming in for a monthly check-up of some troublesome appliance. Thus I have come to think of the apartment as mine, in the most abstract sense of the word. But I did not want to go home and sit in the dark, listening to music, as I knew I would if I went there. I did not want to be alone, but I didn't want to be with anyone either. My feet directed me to the park that stood like a small dead oasis in the winter of the city of their own accord.

          The park, or so people liked to called it, was no more that a patch of trees, mud and grass left standing on both sides of the river to obscure the view the apartments had of the industrial lots that were creeping their way up the river banks. A narrow bridge reached plaintively across the metal gray expanse of water rippling below. It was actually quiet a charming place in the summer time. I paused on the perimeter of the gravel path that meandered its way lazily through the bare gray and white tangle of trees.   

          "Takeru! Takaishi Takeru!"

          I started momentarily as my name was called out. I turned warily to face the speaker, and felt a momentary surge of surprise and pleasure to find it was Hikari running up to me, pink-cheeked and clear eyed.

          "Takeru," Her breath made tiny, lucent clouds around her head. She was panting a little from her brief sprint across the space between us. I smiled at her.

          "What are you doing out in this weather?" I asked softly, smiling faintly. Foolishly. "I'd thought I was the only person daring enough to venture out today." The smile she returned to me, a little uncertainly.

          "How are you Takeru?" She asked instead, bypassing my question to her. Her smile grew more confident with each word spoken. "I never see you anymore."

          I smiled back, gently so as to not alarm her or frighten her away. Few people dared to talk to me now, let alone dared let me smile at them. They seemed terrified that I might be hiding something inside my melancholy cheer. Even people who had known me since I was a child seemed afraid of me. Or maybe it was for me. I can barely tell the difference anymore.

          "I'm good. Could be better, could be worse, but I'm good." I made a vague gesture towards the tattered gravel path laying all but forgotten at my feet. "Walk with me?"

          She blew out a white puff of air. "Be glad to."

          We walked in silence, neither seeming to know what to do or say. We were at the bridge before Hikari had gathered sufficient courage to speak. The winter winds made me wish wistfully of the warmth of indoors, but I managed to dismiss my discomfort.

          "Daisuke asked me to marry him." She turned to face the river abruptly, leaning against the rail. I could see she was gripping it tightly; the knuckles on her gloves were strained. I watched her for a moment. The wind off the water dragged fine strands of nut-brown hair away from her face and pinked her cheeks.

          "Are you going to accept?"

          "I –I, no. I don't . . . Maybe. Yes." She rocked restlessly on the balls of her feet.

          "You should." I rebuked mildly, now leaning against the rail myself. "He cares for more than he cares for himself. He would be there for you when you needed him." It was very quiet suddenly. The wind vanished like a bad dream in daylight, and tall smooth columns of gray and white wood muffled the sound of the traffic one knew was just beyond the empty branches. So very quiet I could hear the rumble of my heart sobbing in my ears.

          "Do you ever," Hikari spoke up suddenly, licking wind-chapped lips. "Do you ever regret?" I stared down at the choppy water below.

          "All the time." The words were surprisingly easy to say. "I would have to be something more than human not to." She shook her head slowly.

          "I didn't mean it like that." She used her forearms to brace herself against the rail. "I meant do you ever regret choices you've made."

          "Yes."

          "Do you ever wish you could be given a chance to do them over again?" I did not see where she was going with these questions. Perhaps did not want to see.

          "Always." Hikari hunched her shoulders in her coat, tucking her hand under her armpits to warm them.

          "But I tend to try and not dwell on the past if I can help it."

          "Takeru," I looked over at her, finding something odd in her voice. "Do you ever . . . " She trailed off vaguely. She sounded both frustrated and frightened. I waited.

          She turned and looked at me. Scrutinizing me for something that she apparently found lacking. 

          "Are you okay with this?" There was an odd curiosity in her cinnamon eyes.

          "It's a little late for me not to be." I replied sardonically, waving my hand in the air to encompass everything within our field of view. I took a deep breath. "Yes, I'm okay with this."

          "This won't change things between us?"

          "Why would it?" I muffled my chuckle at the anxiousness in her voice with my scarf. "You've been seeing Daisuke for what is it? Two years? Three . . .? If anything would change our friendship, it would have been that."

          "Three and a half." She corrected absently. "It's been three and a half years."

          "Ah yes. Ever since the accident." We were both quiet for a moment.

          "There could have been an 'us,' you know." Hikari said quietly, musingly. "If–"

          "I know." I thought it best not to travel that road. Not now. " 'If' could have been many things." I huddled deeper into my own coat, as she had done earlier. 

          "Yes, at one point in time there could have been an 'us.' But not now."

          "Do you regret that?"

          "Do you?" I countered.

          She was thoughtfully silent for a moment. "Yes, in a way. I do regret that we never tried. But I am happy where I am now."

          "I'm glad." She looked at me, slightly uncertain as to which comment I was referring. In truth, so was I.

          She wrapped her arms around herself suddenly, hugging tightly. "It wasn't like I didn't _want_ to be there for you." She said defensively, addressing an imagined accusation. For some reason she felt the need to validate this to me. Or maybe it was to herself. 

          "We were all breaking apart. I didn't know what to do. Daisuke was there. I didn't know what to do and Daisuke was there." Her voice had dropped pitifully on the last few words.

          "Hikari," I drew her attention to myself. "You don't need to explain. Or make excuses. I'm your friend. Now and always. You should know that by now." She raised her hand to brush some hair away from her face. Her eyes were uncertain of me.

          "Thank you."

          My smile was off beat; I could feel it hanging crooked on my face. "You're welcome.

          "Go back to Daisuke, Yagami Hikari. Tell him your answer. There is nothing here for you but ashes. Go warm yourself by his fire." 

          She took one last look at me and turned around and went back the way she came. I could just make out a small trembling in her shoulders as she walked away. I hoped it was from the cold.

          Now I wanted to go home. I turned and slowly made my way up to the apartment, leaving a chunk of myself moldering behind me. Now, now I wanted to be alone.

You are surrounded

But still alone

Feeling chilled to the bone

Standing still

Alone

          The apartment was on the scenic third floor of a mid-range rent level complex. It was fairly large, two-and-a-half bedrooms and two working bathrooms, very simple furnished. Otousan had never been much of an interior decorator; Yamato had always been the one . . .

          Well. Anyway. I am much like Otousan in that way; I couldn't care less how the interior of the house looked. 

          Otousan moved immediately after Yamato . . . Passed away. He just could not continue to live in the same house that his son had died in. But even then, he almost never came home. I think he did not feel safe in a home anymore. I do not blame him for that. So the apartment is not a home. It has no paraphernalia cluttering the walls and the living space. There are no family pictures sitting proudly out on the mantel, though we have a large one. The floor is bare wood, vinyl in the kitchen, with no bright throw rugs scattered haphazardly across the almost empty rooms. The only thing that might signify someone actually living here and not just staying is the shiny, well cared for stereo sound system in the living room. 

          Otousan used his work to be alone; I used music. The CDs were all from Yamato's collection. They were the only things of his that I kept. 

          After refusing to let myself look back at were Hikari and I had talked, I almost ran to the sterile safety of the apartment. I locked the door behind me, and placed my shoes neatly and symmetrically by the door. Once in my room I rummaged through my dresser drawers for a particular CD. I became almost frantic when I could not find it in the small pile of battered plastic cases before I remembered that I had left in the stereo after I had listened to it last. I took a deep breath before heading into the living room. In some ways it almost felt like I was preparing for battle.

          In the living room I pulled out my Walkman, and several unmarked cassette tapes, and placed them beside the single, ancient chair the living room held. I lightly fingered the CD's cover were it lay beside the stereo. I still remembered so clearly the day that Yamato, Mimi, and I had picked out the songs for her demo tape. The soft pastel colors of the cover winked up at me, reminding me of the giddy, almost fierce look that had been on Mimi's face as she and Koushiro designed the front cover. I had had the great honor of helping her arrange and compile the songs. Otousan being in the media business and all, and Yamato was seriously becoming interested in media tech. 

          I can still remember the day we three actually sat down and organized her demo recordings. How she had laughed and moaned about all the work it required. And how she had tried to wheedle me into doing it for her. I did. In the end, that is. I had always held a soft spot for her. She had seemed so out of place when I'd first met her at the summer camp Yamato and I went to.

          She had laughed so much and so joyfully that afternoon. And it was only four years ago that she'd . . . 

          Kami . . . Was it really four years ago . . .? It seemed so short a time ago. We were all together, all so happy. Why . . . 

          I tapped the case once more, then switched the CD on and turned up the volume. I flung myself into the chair and slung the headphones to the Walkman around my throat. My finger hovered over the play button as if it were the trigger of a gun. I let the sweet, melancholy, mocking music from the stereo wash over me. I let myself remember for a moment the hollow shell of a human my Oniisan was before . . . 

          I didn't know that Yamato owned a gun. I had never thought to check.

          Yamato was badly scared after the accident. Not just mentally and emotionally, though that would have been enough, but physically as well. He'd lost the little finger and the ring finger on his right hand. Because he'd been driving, when the steering wheel was pushed inward, his hand had been crushed between the windshield and the wheel. This had also severed a tendon in his right hand, causing it to heal stiffly and near useless. It was only after extensive physiotherapy that he was able to regain some degree of use from it. 

          There were scars too. Thick, crimpled burns stretching across his body like a putrid disease. They started around his right armpit and lower right shoulder, and continued they're spiraling, destructive pattern downward in irregular patches, ending mid thigh on both legs.

          I still remember the first time I saw them. It had been about three or four months after the initial accident. I had known Yamato was scared, but not to what extent. Not to that extent. I had been staying with Otousan and Yamato at the time. I was over there almost all the time after the accident. During those first few months it scared me that we let him be by himself so much.  

          I had just gotten home. Daisuke, Hikari, Miyako and I had all gone out for a semi-reunion. Ken had refused to come for some reason and Iori had declined on the basis of a personal problem. I didn't stick around for long. I felt uneasy among them then. 

          When I got home, I couldn't find Yamato, but I heard the shower running. I waited for twenty minutes. Finally, fearing that he had done something to himself, I barged into the bathroom.

          The room was thick with steam, clouding the mirrors and fogging the shower stall glass. And it was hot. Almost sweltering. The heat rolled out in a wave that hit you with an almost breathtaking force. The water sounded like pieces of glass shattering against the walls of the shower stall. 

         I slid the doors open to find my Oniisan sitting up against the stall wall, right beneath the steaming showerhead, head tilted back and upward. His hair clung to his head in a sleek yellow helmet, some sticking darkly to his cheeks and lips. His eyes were closed and his knees were pulled loosely to his chest, arms absently flung about them. He was very still.

          "Yamato?" I'd ventured softly. He had looked at me then, eyes very bright and sharp.

          "It won't come off." He'd looked down at his hands, red and swollen. "I can't get it to come off." His entire body was pink from the strength with which he'd scrubbed, the scars even more so. Almost an angry mauve in color.

          I, not knowing what to do or how to react, wadded in to the shower and turned off the near scalding water. I then helped him up as I would a very small child, and tried not to stare at the ugly scars covering him, warping his body. I wrapped a towel around him.

          "Dry off," I'd told him softly. "Then come and get something warm to drink with me." He'd nodded obediently and I'd left him alone.

          Looking back now, I saw what I wouldn't let myself see before; the depression, the manic cycles, one moment calm and still, the next angry and almost violent, the carefully suppressed rage, the self-imposed emotional isolation from other people. They were all warning flags I'd willfully chosen to ignore. 

          Unable to bare the memories Mimi's desolate music re-awoke in me anymore, as it always did, I swiftly jabbed the play button on the Walkman, already having made sure that the volume level on it was a loud as it would go. This way I could listen to the music and review the way I felt without being subjective, but objective.

          This was my ritual. Listen to Mimi's music, which was also Yamato's in a way. Listen to the tapes of my therapy sessions so I could begin to grasp at what I was feeling without being swamped by a wave of despair. And allow myself to glimpse at the memories of the happier times.

You try to walk

When you want to run

Away

From the strangers whom surround you

Looking for a face

No longer there

Standing ever

Alone

_          "The trick is to keep breathing."_

_          "I beg your pardon?"_

_          "Breathing. That's the trick."_

_          "The trick of what?"_

_          "Surviving daily._

_          "Once . . . once just after the accident he and I were watching TV. Some news update came on saying something about one of the only survivors of that plane crash that happened a few days earlier. I had asked Yamato how someone could survive after something like that had happened to them. After having people around them die. And he turned to me, and he looked at me._

_          " 'The trick is,' He told me softly. 'To keep breathing. In and out.  Every day.' "_

          There was one time when I was talking to Yamato, just before . . . 

          Anyway. There was one time when he called me, and he had whispered so softly that I had to strain to hear him. He whispered, 'there are times when I feel so . . . alone.' I'd replied quickly, too quickly, almost sharply, that he had no need to feel like that. We were there for him. He was not alone. I'd laughed off probably his only plea for help.    

          Looking back now, I think I may have lost an opening he was showing me. I think I lost a chance to help him. I think I didn't want to believe that anything was wrong.

          I think I realized that when I found him. Just sitting there . . . 

          Otousan and I threw that chair out afterward; the bloodstain on it was permanent.

Now you're falling

Falling down

_          "The report says you were the one to find him."_

_          " . . . Yes."_

_          "Would you tell me about it?"_

_          " . . . I probably should, shouldn't I?"_

_          "I believe it would be helpful. Yes."_

_          "Alright._

_          "I had just talked to him. Just phoned him before I came over. He didn't seem . . . he didn't sound any different than usual, I guess. Maybe more calm. Maybe more tired, but I . . . _

_          "I guess I wasn't looking for the right signs."_

_          "No one ever is Takaishi-san." _

_          "I do remember that there was this . . . tranquility in his voice. Like he'd finally finished something started a long time ago. I think I thought that he was coming to terms with himself. I guess he did, in his own way."_

_          " . . . Takaishi-san?"_

_          "Hmm? Yes?"_

_          "Do you wish to continue?"_

_          "No. _

_          "Anyway, I went to the house. I went in, I have my own key, and noticed how still it was. Like the entire house was holding its breath. That frightened me. I called out as I shed my coat. I had just called. He knew I was coming. Why did he do it then . . .? He could have waited for me. I would have come. I was coming."_

_          "Takaishi-san?"_

_          "He was in the living room."_

_          "Yes. That was in the police report."_

_          "He was just sitting there. His head was slumped back against the headrest, tilted sideways, a little. Resting on his shoulder. It looked like he was asleep._

_          "The stereo was on."_

_          "I didn't read that in the report."_

_          "It wouldn't be. I didn't tell the police."_

_          "Oh?"_

_          "It wasn't important._

_          "The music wasn't blaring. It was soft, comforting. It was her music. But then, it always was. After the accident he refused to listen to any music that wasn't hers. _

_          "After I'd called the ambulance, I went back into the living room. I'd asked the operator to call Otousan. I didn't ask her to call Okaasan. Yamato had never really forgiven her for leaving. After a while, it was like only Otousan and I were his family. Okaasan stopped asking after Yamato around then too. Even after the accident, though Okaasan was worried and want to help him, she didn't go see him. It was always just Otousan and I. I guess she though that might push him away even more."_

_          "The report says that you were found holding your brother."_

_          "That's right. Yes."_

_          "Why?"_

_          " . . . After I made those calls, I felt this . . . I don't know, this stillness creep over me. Start to consume me. He looked so small in the chair, so very fragile. I wasn't sure what to do. I remembered that once, when I was younger, I had had a nightmare. Otousan was away for the night, and Yamato was in charge. He heard me, and came into my room and held me. Just rocked me back and forth and hummed. It made me feel better. I thought that maybe, if I did that, he would wake up. That maybe this would have all been some never ending dream and that by holding him, I could give him some of the comfort he gave to me. _

_          "It didn't work. He didn't wake up, but it made me feel better. A little less useless."_

_          "The report also says that you were very calm when they found you. You weren't crying."_

_          "Tears don't change anything. They wouldn't have been helpful."_

          I hadn't even known that Yamato could use a gun. But, I guess you don't even really need to know how to use a gun to kill yourself with one.

          Seeing him there had been odd. It was like I was looking at someone else in that chair and not my Niisan. But it was my Niisan, and that's what was most strange about it. It was my older brother sitting in that chair, one hand lying neatly in his lap, with the right side of his face blown away. Red. And white. Raw. The other hand was flung over the armrest. The gun was on the floor, fallen from nerveless fingers. There were strands of bright blond hair stuck to the wall behind him and the chair in droplets of drying blood. There was some on the floor behind as well.

           I wasn't as shocked as I think I should have been. I know I was more relieved than I should have been. Somewhere in the back of my mind I had known that, in the end, it, this, would happen. Well maybe not this precisely, I had never thought that he would be dead, but I knew that something would happen to break him. He was never fine, though we all liked to pretend he was. I think I felt it was a relief to finally get it over with, get it out in the open.

          But, contrary to what my parents and friends believe, I do not think it was Mimi's death that triggered this. It was multiple things. Jyou death and Yamato's part in it; I knew he blamed himself for not paying enough attention. School. After the accident, he took up the courses he would need to get into medicine or maybe psychology. The professions Jyou was going to get into. He had always hated science. His grades were low; he wasn't doing well. 

          It also didn't help that Otousan, despite being vaguely worried about his eldest son's emotional state, decided that the best thing to do would be to just pretend that everything was fine, or was going to be. Okaasan was the opposite, for a while at least. She wanted him to go see doctor, to get help, she wanted to protect him from what happened, blot it from his waking mind.

          Yamato ignored both of them, sinking farther and farther into his own world while I watched not knowing what to do. Or maybe I didn't want to know what to do. Maybe I . . . 

          Maybe I had wanted him to. 

You're waiting for the impact

_          "He phoned me once."_

_          "What did you talk about?"_

_          " . . . I don't remember."_

_          "Keeping thing bottled up won't help you Takaishi-san."_

_          "I don't, okay? I don't remember what we talked about._

_          " . . . But there was something he said towards the end that always stayed with me."_

_          "And it was . . .?"_

_          " . . . I guess there had been a lull in the conversation. One of those moments of absolute silence that were becoming very familiar to me. What he said in that silence surprised me."_

_          "What did he say?"_

_          "He said, 'I remember.'"_

_          "That's it?"_

_          " . . . No. I asked him what he remembered and he gave a tinny laugh. It may have just been the telephone, but it sounded tinny to me._

_          " 'I remember want Mimi and I fought about.' He'd said. 'I remember what we had that fight about.' I asked him what it had been and he said, 'We were fighting about that tour she went on. I didn't want her to go. I thought that she should put it on hold and finish school here, with us. With me. I said as much to her.'  _

_          "I didn't know what to say to him. So I didn't say anything. After a moment of silence, he said goodbye and hung up."_

          Yamato was a private person. Nobody who ever met him could deny that. But there are times when I think to myself, when I ask myself, why nobody ever noticed the way he withdrew from everyone. I would like to think that they just honestly didn't see it. But I know they did. I know they knew something was wrong. They just didn't care.

          They were afraid of him. And who wouldn't be? With his disfigured hand and body, with his best friend dead in a car accident, of which one of the cars had been his, with him at the wheel. He scared people. Not intentionally. And they were not intentionally scared of him. Maybe 'scared' is not even the right word. 'Distrusting' is better. They didn't feel that they could trust him any more. It was devastating to him.

          I had once asked Ken about it, surprisingly enough. We, all of us, had been at the semi-annual meeting that we held, this time at the Yagami's. We were subconsciously divided into sections. Daisuke, Iori, Miyako were all standing together, being the 'new' Chosen. Taichi, Sora, Koushiro were altogether, being the 'old' Chosen. Hikari and I wandered back and forth between them, being both. Ken sat off to the side, being not quite one of the old Chosen, though he held a tag and crest, and not quite being one of the new Chosen, though Wormmon could armor evolve. Yamato, too, sat off to the side. Partly because he hadn't really wanted to come, partly because we had all seen the tentative, sickened look that had been apparent on familiar faces. 

          They made a minimal effort to include him in the conversations going on. But he did not help them, only answering monosyllable replies to questions presented to him. They just stopped trying after a while. 

          I had been mad. I had brought Yamato to the damn thing in hopes that being around our friends would get him to talk, maybe even laugh. That he was being such an ass was not helping. I wandered over to where Ken sat watching us all make idiots of ourselves trying to not say the wrong thing. He smiled enigmatically.

          "Having fun?" I'd snarled uncharacteristically. Ken just looked at me and I'd shifted uncomfortably.

          "Sorry." Ken had shrugged.

          "It's alright."

          We both watched the others for a moment.

          "Your Oniisan is not doing so well." Ken had looked at me from the corner of his eye, tilting his head in Yamato's direction.

          "Ya think?" I'd retorted shortly. Ken shook with what might have been a silent laugh.

          "That's not exactly what I meant." He turned to me, indigo eyes intense. "He doesn't trust himself. That makes him afraid to trust others. Because, if one can't trust ones self, then who can one trust?"

          I'd shivered a little under his eyes. "How do you know that?"

          He'd gotten a far away look on his face, eye dilating into cloudy cerulean. "I know. What more do you need than that?"

          Ken was right. Yamato didn't trust himself. Hell, he barely liked himself. And they always say that how you feel about yourself reflects onto other people. Self-fulfilling prophecies and all that crap. 

          The tape in the Walkman shuddered to a halt, signaling the end of this side of the tape. I hurriedly flipped it, trying to prevent myself from losing myself to deeply in the music. I jabbed the play button for the second time, feeling a rush of relief as the tape squealed to life.__

It comes

But now familiar arms hold you

_          "Takaishi-san, do you know what the emotion opposite to love is?"_

_          "I don't know. Hate?"_

_          "No, not hate. Fear, Takaishi-san, it is fear. Fear is the emotion opposite of love. Fear is the root of all other emotions as well. Hate is begot of fear, anger is begot of fear; envy, jealousy, depression; all are a different type of fear. _

_          "So Takaishi-san, what are you so afraid of?"_

          What am I so afraid of? If I could answer that then maybe I would be all right. Maybe I could have made Yamato all right. Maybe . . . 

          Maybe . . .

          " 'Maybes' are no good." Ken had told me a while ago. He had seemed, I don't know – concerned? Worried? Anxious? – for me. I had run into him at a small bookstore I had taken shelter in from the rain one day. Ken and I began talking to relive some of the boredom. I had began to wax wistfully of the 'might's,' 'should haves,' and the 'maybes' that I didn't do.

          Ken, surprisingly, was the only one that never really seemed too shocked by what was happening. By what Yamato had done. By what everyone seemed to think that I was in the process of doing to myself.

          That day, in the bookstore, he grabbed my shoulder with a steel grip, holding me still before him.

          "You can't think about the 'maybes.' That will destroy you. It will pull you down and hold you tight and never let you have a life." I'd stared at him wonderingly. He'd seen my look and something in his eyes had flickered.

          "Takaishi, you could have done nothing for him. He was the only one that could have pulled himself out of the empty space he was falling into.

          "Takeru," His eyes had seen past me then, at something long ago. "He didn't want to stop himself. He was killing himself slowly with university. With the guilt. You don't need to. You can survive if you stop the 'maybes.' " I'd jerked my arm from his grip.

          "Why do you care?" I'd tried, unsuccessfully, to stare him down.

          "I like you." He'd answered glibly, looking away. "I don't need any more reason than that."

          I would like to let go of the maybes. I really would. But I can't. Simply because I know, no matter what anyone says, that I could have stopped him.

          The question I must now deal with is why didn't I?

          The second side of the tape clicked to a stop, but this time I didn't bother to change it. I closed my eyes and leaned my head against the chair. The music swirled and swelled in the air around me, lifting me up to heights unknown before letting me plummet to the deepest of depths. I could feel a bar of silky warmth across my face and chest. The sun was setting. The windows in the living room faced west.

          I kept my eyes closed, just letting the sun-warmed air glide around me in smooth fingers. Letting the bar of warmth slowly move away from me as the shadows deepened.

          I ignored the cool wetness I could feel sliding down my flushed cheeks.

_          "What I am afraid of . . .?"_

_          "Yes."_

_          "I am afraid of failing."_

_          "And?"_

_          "And what?"_

_          "What else?"_

_           " . . . I don't know."_

_          "Yes you do."_

_          " . . . Maybe._

_          "Maybe –Maybe being alone. Not the way I am now, but . . . alone."_

_          " . . . And?"_

_          " . . . Forgetting whom my brother was before . . . All this."_

_          "And?"_

_          "Remembering who my brother was before this, maybe."_

_          "Why?"_

_          "I might grow to hate him if I remember how strong my brother was, and then how weak."_

_          "I see . . . And? What else?"_

_          " . . . Becoming like him. Or not becoming like him. I don't know which scares me more."_

Standing

No longer

Alone

–  –  –


	5. footnotes

Footnotes

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'After' note:

Esmee's note: 

          As you may or may not have read my previous fic called 'After' let me explain this one. Many, many eons ago I wrote a fic called 'After', and sent it out to be posted. 

          Oh the horror!

          But a little while ago, as I was going through my old fics, I reread 'After' and realized that it was horrible! So I took it upon myself to rewrite 'After' and both its alternate endings. I'm thinking of making it into a trilogy. Hopefully, they won't take to long to rewrite. I hope you all enjoy this rewrite more than the original

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'I remember' note:

Note from the author: Just a few points I would like to clear up.

1) If you didn't already figure it out, the centered words are the song Jyou and Yamato are listening to on the radio. 

2) The last line of the fic is supposed to be static. 

3) My family knew someone who had been in a car accident just like the one I wrote about. They had been driving down the highway late at night, when a drunk-driver driving on the wrong side of the road hit them. The man we knew survived, but his girlfriend didn't.  

4) I've never died, so I don't know what happen the instant before death. If anyone out there knows, E-MAIL ME!

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'Alone' note:

Author's note: 

          I rewrote the ending! Yeah! I personally feel that it is much more powerful this way. 

          If you want to understand what Takeru is feeling, or for that matter what the hell is going on in the fic, you really need to read between the lines.

          For those wondering, the Italicized words are the recordings of Takeru's previous sessions. The centered words are, as always, Mimi's song. And just to clear up any confusion, the italicized text to the left is Takeru speaking and the italicized text to the right is the therapist.

          Suicide is not something _anyone should consider. Ever. Please forgive my poem; I'm not very good at poetry. Thank you for reading, and C & C's are welcome. _

          And just so everyone knows, I love Yamato, Mimi, Takeru and Jyou. And no, I do _not have a morbid fascination with killing/torturing/maiming/emotionally traumatizing/scarring them/crippling them. That is absolutely not true. Kind of. Now I'm off to listen to some cheerful music, like Natalie Imbruglia, or Sheryl Crow._


End file.
